Best Served Cold
by greensight
Summary: For the Holiday Fic Exchange- prompt: prank war. So maybe Alex can't get "real" revenge against Yassen for everything that's happened between them, because MI6 has decided to formally pardon him. But that doesn't mean Alex can't get revenge in his own style.


So this is my piece for the holiday fic exchange! The prompt I got was: "Ian, Alex, and/or Yassen, prank war with each other or their colleagues". I tried to incorporate the elements as best I could. It was definitely interesting trying to draw up a situation in which it could happen! Please drop a review to let me know what you think. I need to get around to reading the other entries - they look great but I'm hopelessly unorganised D:

Anyway, Happy Christmas, or whatever else you might celebrate!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except a lot of bitterness at the fact that Anthony Horowitz gave a talk at my uni recently and I didn't find out until after it was over. When am I going to get another chance like that again?!

Edit: the horrible typos have been fixed. Always proofread, kids.

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Alex has to admit: it's a bit of a weird situation that he's found himself in. And honestly, he doesn't really know how he's ended up here, somehow working in the same building as his uncle (who he thought was dead) and the man who supposedly killed his uncle (who Alex _definitely_ thought was dead, having held him as he died and all that). The shock of discovering Yassen was still alive was probably a little duller than it should have been, coming a few months after the discovery that _Ian_ was still alive.

Something about it is just too surreal, going into the Royal and General to fill in paperwork, and seeing Ian sitting at his desk, looking thoughtfully at his screen, and then passing Yassen in the corridor. Yassen has come to an agreement with MI6, agreeing to "consult" on cases, since he does owe them for saving his life.

Something about it just feels a little too... domestic?

"You're angry at Yassen," Ian comments one day.

Alex realises that he has been pacing. He's just come back from a meeting with Blunt and Jones, and seeing Yassen standing behind Blunt's shoulder was just too eerie.

It's true; he _is_ angry. He wonders if proper spies – spies who have gone down the traditional route, not started at fourteen and carried on after they left school – find it so easy to just get over things like this. Maybe spies are supposed to be cool and detached, like Ian is. But Alex can't just forget all the history between him, Ian and especially Yassen. Maybe Ian can get past the fact that Yassen once came terrifyingly close to killing him, but Alex can't. It isn't in his nature to forget something like that, and yes, part of him still seethes with anger every time he sees Yassen swaggering through the Royal and General, like he's gotten off scot-free.

"Aren't you?" Alex retorts. "The man _shot_ you."

Ian considers for a moment, a ponderous look on his face, but eventually just shrugs.

"He was doing his job. As I was doing mine. It wasn't personal."

Alex can't help but shake his head. "I don't understand."

A wry smile twisted Ian's lips. "No. I don't suppose you would. Sometimes I forget how young you are." Then his face turns serious. "But I have to warn you Alex, don't try anything on my behalf. It's settled now. The powers-that-be have arranged a truce."

Alex folds his arms, not bothering to hide how unhappy he is with it all.

It's only when he's going to sleep that night that the possibility hits him. Blunt and Jones have organised a truce at corporate level, yes. He can't give Yassen his just desserts by attacking him with a machete, or anything like that. But that's hardly the only way of getting revenge, and Alex knows it well. Like Ian said, he _is_ still a teenager.

Pulling out his phone, he shoots off a text to a veritable expert in this field.

 ** _I need your help_**

It's 2:08AM, but Tom replies immediately.

 ** _hit me up dude_**

 ** _how do I prank an assassin?_**

.

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The next morning, Alex finds himself back in Ian's office, yawning over a cup of coffee. If Ian notices the bags under his eyes – or if he heard Alex sneaking out at four that morning – then he chooses to say nothing.

They're discussing Ian's latest assignment when the door is thrown open.

The look on Yassen's face can be described as nothing less than murderous. Yet even knowing that he'd managed to put that expression on the face of a renowned assassin, Alex has to bite his lip to force down his grin.

"Where are they?" Yassen demands without preamble.

Alex puts on his best look of innocent confusion.

"Is there something wrong, Gregorovich?" asked Ian, a frown marring his face.

Yassen's lips curl back over his teeth in an almost animalistic snarl.

"You _know_ what's wrong. One of you Riders did it, and I plan on finding out which one. Or you're _both_ going to suffer."

Alex feels Ian bristle beside him. He rises from his desk, his face turning dark.

"Threaten my nephew again and it'll be the last thing you do."

"Do you know that your nephew is a lying little thief?"

"You're on thin fucking ice here, Gregorovich. Tell me what this is about or I'll kill you before you can move and call security to mop up your brains."

" _Someone_ ," Yassen glares pointedly at Alex, as if he has no doubts about the identity of that someone, "Has stolen my guns."

A crease appears in Ian's forehead. "Your guns?"

"Yes, Rider. Every one that I keep in this building is _gone_. Would you like to see what the thief replaced them with?"

There's a blur of movement, making both Ian and Alex jump back on spy's instinct. If Yassen slammed the blue plastic object down onto the desk any harder, he might put a dent in the wood.

And incredulous silence fills the room.

"Water guns?" says Ian.

There's a strain in his voice. Alex glances across and sees a sparkle in his eye, and his lips twitching in a way that makes Alex think that it might be taking all of his uncle's effort to keep from bursting into laughter.

It's a pity that Yassen doesn't share his amusement. He glares down at the cheap plastic water pistol with disgust etched into every line of his face, and spits out a string of venomous Russian words. Alex doesn't know what they translate to, but he's fairly sure they aren't very polite.

"I can see why this would be a concern for you, Yassen," Ian says mildly.

"Don't play innocent, Rider," Yassen spits. "Where are they?" He turns his murderous gaze upon Alex. " _You_ know, if he doesn't. I should have known it would be the _child_. Whoever thought you were mature enough to be a spy needs a bullet in their brain."

"Well, you're not going to be the one to do it, are you?" Alex points out, gesturing at the useless toy gun.

Ian chokes on the laugh he's trying to stifle. Yassen's eyes darken further. He closes the distance between him and Alex, and somehow he seems to grow ten inches in one step, looming over Alex like a vulture. Maybe it's a special assassin trick.

"If my guns aren't back in my supply room by the end of the day, I'm going to remove your appendages one. By. One."

Alex wondered if it was wrong that even a threat like that couldn't break his bubble of amusement.

Ian quickly stepped in between them.

"Okay, okay, I think this has gone far enough. Gregorovich – you've said your piece. Now I need to talk to my nephew alone."

Yassen doesn't take his eyes off Alex as he backs away. "One by one, Rider."

As soon as the door is closed, Ian breaks into peels of laugher, doubling over and holding onto his desk. Satisfaction sits smugly in Alex's chest. Yassen's reaction was even better than he'd hoped for.

When Ian's expression finally turns sober, he fixes Alex with a look.

"Alex…"

"Are you going to give me a lecture?"

Ian shakes his head. "No. I just hope you know what you're doing. Gregorovich is not an enemy you want to make."

Alex raises his eyebrows. "You think he's going to break the truce over some water guns? The higher-ups will never let him get away with it."

A slow smile works its way across Ian's face as he realises what Alex is up to.

"Besides, what is he going to do?" scoffs Alex, utterly confident. "He's a world class assassin. He's way to high brow to do anything petty."

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Yassen's guns are back in place by evening. All day, he stands guard outside his office with a sour look on his face, adamant to catch Alex red-handed when he returns them. Alex, however, manages to bribe Melinda on the third floor to hold Yassen up, enthusiastically trying to convince him to attend the Royal and General's annual Christmas Party. Alex smirks at the look of irritated bewilderment on the assassin's face as he slips past without being seen, a duffel bag full of guns slung over his shoulder. He winces at the clatter from within bag when he dumps it outside the door, sincerely hoping that Yassen remembers to keep the safety on.

It's not until he leaves to go home that evening that Alex learns exactly how petty a world class assassin can be. He makes his way through the underground car park and ducks into the bike shed with his headphones in his ears. Except when he crouches down to unlock his bike, it's a few inches lower down than he should have been. Alex drops his keys in horror.

The other bank workers jump out of his way in fear as he storms up to Yassen's office, throwing open the door without knocking.

"Seriously?" he says furiously. "Slashing my tires? Are you twelve years old?"

Yassen merely folds his arms, an amused look settling on his face.

"I could say the same thing to you. Hiding my guns like a petty little child."

"You're paying to get my bike fixed."

Yassen laughs. "And why on earth would I do that?"

Alex spits out what he imagines is the English equivalent of what Yassen called him earlier, making the assassin's eyebrows rise up to his hairline.

"Are you finished?" he says flatly when Alex runs out of breath.

Alex just glares.

"I don't remember having such a filthy mouth when I was a child."

"I'm not a child, asshole. And this isn't over."

Yassen's eyes roll back into his head.

"Whatever. мне все равно. Go and beg your uncle to drive you home like a good little boy scout."

"Go fuck yourself," Alex returns, and slams the door behind him.

He's still fuming when he knocks on Ian's door, but Ian doesn't look the least bit surprised.

"Well, what did you expect? He wasn't going to let you get away with stealing his guns and humiliating him."

"But I gave him his stupid guns back!" Alex cries in outrage. "It's not like he can put the air back into my bike tires!"

"No, I suppose not," Ian muses. "I suppose this means he's won, then. If you choose to end it here."

Alex bristles at the mere suggestion. "Like hell it does. I'm getting even."

His uncle is far too professional to let his composure change, but Alex thinks he sees a twinkle in his eye.

"You know, Yassen it clearly enlisting outside help. He must have gotten somebody else to slash your tires, if he was outside his office all day, as you said he was. It's only fair that you have the same kind of – how do I put it? – resources available."

Alex can hear the offer of help in Ian's voice, and finally his anger melts into the beginnings of a grin.

"You have an idea?"

"I might be onto something…"

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.

Ian, it turns out, is a _very_ useful source of help. He knows things that Alex doesn't, has access to information that Alex has no reason to know, and when Alex hears what he's planning, a wicked grin spreads across his face.

They won't be able to put it in action for a week or so. But that doesn't matter. Alex can be patient. And he quite likes teasing Yassen, seeing the way his eyes narrow in suspicion each time Alex passes him in the corridor with a perfectly innocent look on his face. Alex can tell that he's wondering why he isn't getting his revenge.

After a week, though, Yassen is too preoccupied to give Alex's schemes are second thought. According to Ian's intel, he's being sent on an assignment. An assignment that needs a disguise. It's nothing dramatic, but Alex can work with it.

It isn't hard to get into Smithers' workshop. Alex simply waits for the man to leave, humming tunelessly as he carries a box of supplies out of his room, and then slips into the room before the door closes. There are a number of boxes on the shelves, but Alex's eyes go to the one with 'Y.G.' stamped on the side. He opens it carefully, and quickly locates what he's looking for. A bottle, not a packet. Perfect. He pulls out the smaller bottle that is stashed in his pocket and shakes the contents into Smithers'. Then he slides the box carefully back into place, and turns to leave.

Before he slips out, however, he pauses. He might have gotten inside, but he knows Smithers, and MI6's gadget maestro would never leave his workshop undefended. There are probably half a dozen cameras and microphones recording him right now, even if they're invisible. Alex throws a look at the walls.

"Can you keep this one quiet for me, Smithers?" he asks the room. "I promise it will be worth it."

Smithers must decide to trust him – that, or he doesn't bother to look at his own security footage – because nothing happens for another three days.

And then, on Thursday, that the prank comes to fruition.

Yassen doesn't need to come charging into Ian's office this time. Ian and Alex's room is only two floors below Yassen's, and Alex hears his strangled cry through two whole floors of soundproofed concrete.

A whole hour later, the agents take him straight to Blunt's office, which amuses Alex a little, that it's being treated as a matter of national security. When he steps through the door, the room is in stony silence. Blunt looks as morbid as ever, sitting in his desk, hands folded in front of him. Mrs Jones is obviously trying to remain professional, but Alex doesn't miss the way her eyes keep flickering over to the very obvious elephant in the room.

He can't help but splutter when he sees it. There's no point trying to pretend it wasn't him. Ian is in stitches as well.

Yassen looks absolutely furious, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Alex thinks it might be a scary image, if his hair wasn't bubblegum-pink.

"I'm glad you find the jeopardization of international security so funny," Blunt says coldly.

Alex rolls his eyes. "How exactly does _Yassen's hair colour_ jeopardise international security?"

"Alex," Mrs Jones intervenes. "Yassen was scheduled to go on an undercover mission in the Phillipines tomorrow. His new look doesn't exactly – er – suit undercover work."

"I think it suits him," says Alex, unable to resist. "Really brings out the colour in your eyes, Yassen."

Before he can say another word, Yassen is surging forward and then Alex finds his feet dangling in the air as Yassen grabs him by the scruff of his shirt with an iron grip. Alex struggles to breathe.

"Yassen, please put Alex down," Mrs Jones says mildly. "Alex, if you could tell us what hair dye you used. It's important that we fix this before Yassen is due to go to Makati, and so far the dye has been…" she hesitates, "Resistant to our efforts to remove it."

Yassen says much the same thing.

"Tell me what you used, you little brat, or I'll throw you out of the fucking window!"

Alex can't help but smirk. He made _sure_ that the stuff is going to stay in for weeks.

Yassen's eyes flit over dangerously to the window.

"Gregorovich," Blunt says emotionlessly, "If you don't put Rider down, I'm going to have to order security to taze you."

Yassen practically growls. But he releases Alex, dropping him unceremoniously on the floor. He falls on his backside, but he doesn't have it in him to be embarrassed. Not when he's in the same room as a pink-haired Yassen Gregorovich.

"Alex. The name of the dye."

Blunt pinpoints Alex with a cool look. He sighs, and gives in. He doesn't doubt that Blunt will have him dragged down to the dungeons and put through whatever awful torture machine they have down there if he doesn't give them an answer.

"It will wash out in three weeks," he says helpfully.

Mrs Jones coughs discreetly, pressing a hand to her mouth which Alex is pretty sure is hiding a smile. Yassen, on the other hand, is staring at Alex with a gleam of insanity in his eyes. His hands are twitching, and Alex can see almost hear him wondering if strangling Alex is worth the jail time.

Blunt just leans forward, carefully.

"This petty little feud between you and Gregorovich – it ends now. Do you understand me?"

Maybe that would have scared fourteen-year-old pre-Stormbreaker Alex, but toughened up over the years.

"Do you understand me, Alex?" Blunt repeats, in a voice that would undoubtedly have some people shitting their pants.

Alex scoffs. "Is the head of MI6 really going to invest the government's time and effort on a prank war?"

He sees a vein in Blunt's forehead twitch.

"Get out, Rider."

Alex doesn't need to be told twice.

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Alex doesn't expect the next prank, and it pisses him off. Badly.

The next week is the most delightful one that Alex can remember having in a while. Yassen's hair remains gloriously magenta all week. He wears a dark beanie pulled down firmly over his head, but every so often Alex sees a bright pink lock poking out of the hat, and he sees the other bank employees ogling. It brings Alex more satisfaction than any of his missions ever did. Tom is almost as devoted to the war as he is, drawing up a list of ideas as long as his arm that he's adding to every day, and that Alex is greatly looking forward to putting into motion.

Alex almost forgets that it's his turn to be pranked next.

He gets a cruel reminder when he wakes up on a Saturday and his phone doesn't work. Alex frowns, wondering if it's the sleep fog that's turned all the figures on the screen unreadable. But then he sits up, and rubs his eyes, and lo and behold: it's still in gibberish.

No, not gibberish, he realises after a moment. Cyrillic.

Panic rises in Alex as he desperately tries to change the settings back to English, but it's no use. He's been locked out of his own phone. Yassen has hardwired his phone for Russian and nothing else.

Ugh. It grates on Alex, a _lot_. First his bike and now his phone? At least the pink hair prank was funny. Yassen has no sense of humour; he's just _vicious_.

He should call the bank, he thinks, but then realises he doesn't have a phone. He scowls all the way on the tube, and then frowns when the receptionist tells him that he isn't allowed in.

"It's a Saturday," she says. "You don't have clearance to enter the building on weekends, Mr Rider."

Alex grits his teeth. He can't go a whole weekend without his phone. He's a _teenager_ , for Christ's sake.

"Is it really that hard to let me through the door?"

"Sorry, Mr Rider," she says, not looking or sounding remotely sorry. "You need to leave now, or I'll have to call security…"

"Fine! I'm going, I'm going. Can I fill in a customer feedback form on my way out? Because this bank fucking _sucks_."

As he goes, he gets the distinct sensation that someone is watching him, a gaze on the back of his neck. Turning, he sees a CCTV camera pointing straight at him, and he instantly knows who is behind it. Yassen's smugness practically radiates through the camera lens. He scowls and flips him off before he leaves.

Those two days seem to stretch into an eternity. Alex bugs Tom all of Saturday, whose own attention span is so bad that he's sympathetic with Alex's plight. But eventually even Tom gets sick of his whining and kicks him out. Worse, when he gets home he finds out that all of his electronics have been turned into Russian – his laptop, his Xbox, everything. He curses the entire country of Russia.

At least Jack looks sorry for him. Ian is too amused to be sympathetic. He starts up a long-winded lecture on how a good spy really should be able to function without electronics – Alex tunes out somewhere around the second sentence.

He's at Smithers' desk at nine A.M. on Monday morning.

"You can fix it, right?" he says hopefully, but Smithers shakes his head, a wry smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, my boy, but I know better than to take sides in a fight like this. This is between you and Gregorovich."

Alex groans, but Smithers gives him a pointed look.

"Now, now, Alex, don't be like that. Remember that I looked the other way when you slipped Gregorovich permanent hair dye on my watch."

At least the memory cheers Alex up a bit.

"Okay," he says. "That's fair."

The only thing he can do is throw himself into the next prank. Yassen has, unwittingly, focused Alex's attention on his own destruction.

And Alex decides to go down the traditional route with this one.

Yassen is gone now, away on his mission and undoubtedly wearing at least three beanies at all moments, so Alex has ample opportunity to put his plan into practice. He gives himself the day off, and returns to the bank with several armfuls of shopping bags. He picks the lock of Yassen's door, dodges the spray of bullets that breaking into the room triggers, and then steps carefully over the lasers criss-crossing the room to defuse the security system on the opposite wall. He whistles to himself as he pulls the first tube of superglue out and starts at Yassen's desk, methodically gluing everything down in place.

Two days later, he's finally done. For a final touch, he throws toilet paper over all of Yassen's things, and then empties two cans of spray-paint onto Yassen's walls, decorating it with smiley-faces, and other things that teenagers tend to doodle on their schoolbags. Alex was never much of an artist, but looking at the final result, he honestly thinks that he can call it a masterpiece.

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Yassen returns on Friday, with a shaven head and an irritated, just-come-off-a-mission-with-too-many-sleepless-nights look about him.

"Yassen," Alex nods when he passes him in a corridor. He glances up at the buzzcut. "That's a shame. The pink really did suit you."

Yassen's eyes narrow. Then his lip curls slightly, a vicious dark look entering his eyes.

"Are you enjoying your phone's upgrade?"

Alex fights not to let his annoyance show. In a few minutes, he reminds himself, Yassen will walk into his office and throw a fit that will go down in the history books. True, he might also throw Alex out of a window, but Alex is definitely going to die young anyway. At least this way, he can die happy, knowing that he pissed off Yassen enough to give him an aneurysm.

Except, that isn't what happens. Alex starts to get uneasy when he doesn't hear an uproar like he did last time. Maybe he's given Yassen a heart attack from shock? That would certainly be an unexpected development.

No: he doesn't hear anything all day. And neither does Ian. He simply shakes his head, a disapproving expression on his face, when Alex updates him with the latest development.

"Nobody has seen Yassen since he got back. How bad did you trash his room?"

Alex considers. "If I'd done it to you, you'd probably send me to a foreign country where I didn't speak the language for a couple of months."

"Pretty bad, then?"

"It could have been worse," Alex tries to reason. "It was just a bit of glue and spray-paint. You should have heard what Tom wanted to put on his walls…"

Ian shudders. "Don't. I can imagine. Look, Alex, do you think this fight of yours might have gone too far?"

"You're supposed to be on my side!"

"And I am. But when assassins go off the map, that's generally a sign that they're preparing to take someone out."

Alex tried to shrug off his unease. "No… he wouldn't actually do it. Would he?"

Ian strokes his chin thoughtfully. "I did hear that Yassen once killed a man for offending his eyebrows."

"Wait – what?" Alex feels horror rising inside of him. "You're telling me this _now_?!"

"It was just a story." At Alex's panicked look, Ian just shrugs. "I always raised you to make your own mistakes so you could learn from them."

"If he actually kills me, I'm not going to be learn from them!"

"I'm sure he won't go _that_ far," says Ian. "Just don't walk home tonight." He pauses. "And stay away from windows. He usually goes for window shots."

The rest of the day passes in a strange haze. Alex is slightly embarrassed of the way he's started to jump at little sounds like cupboards shutting, and hear phantom footsteps following him. He tries to calm himself, tries to tell himself that he's _not_ going to get murdered because he took a prank war with an assassin too far… Like Ian said, Yassen wouldn't actually go that far…

It only gets worse when the sun goes down. Back in his house, Alex bit his thumbnail down to a stump, peaking out of the curtains compulsively, until Ian finally orders him to go to bed. He bristles a little at that.

"I'm seventeen. You can't tell me what to do."

"Untrue. I can still tell you what to do for another year. Now go to bed."

When Alex still visibly hesitates, Ian sighs.

"Look, Alex, Yassen isn't going to be able to smother you in your sleep. Do you really not know that the house has protections?"

A knot of anxiety in Alex unwinds.

"Really?"

"Yes, really. We're spies. I thought that much would be obvious."

It does seem rather obvious, now that Alex thinks about it. It sets his mind at rest, and he actually manages to get to sleep rather quickly, despite not thinking he would, when he lies down in his bed.

He gets four hours of sleep before the sound outside wakes him up. Alex bolts upright. Then he hears it again: something slamming against his window. Alex leaps out of bed, remembering at the back of his mind that he left his window open, throws open his curtains—

And gets punched in the face. Alex reels back, blinded. His fists come up on instinct, flailing at his invisible assailant. It takes a moment for his sleep-fuzzy brain to realise that his face is covered in something heavy and sticky. The acrid smell of paint fills his nose.

"Oh shit – I think I got him in the face!"

Alex hears the distant yell as he's running to the bathroom. He doesn't stay to see who it is. He groans as he scrubs at his paint-covered face. Part of him is admittedly relieved that _this_ is what Yassen was building up to, and not actually murdering him. But on another level, getting socked in the face with a paintball really, actually hurts, and his eyes are stinging like mad. Another bang on the bathroom window makes him wince.

When Ian bursts into the bathroom, Alex looks up glumly. Everything is still blurry, but he can see enough of his reflection to know that he looks absolutely ridiculous, with green paint drying in his hair despite his best efforts.

Ian has fared better. There's a splash of blue on his pyjama sleeve, and specks on his face. He winces in pity when he sees Alex.

"They got you, huh?"

Alex just moans pitifully.

They spend most of the night under fire. Alex, Ian and Jack huddle under blankets in the living room, trying to ignore the sound of their house getting completely and utterly trashed. Alex hopes distantly that one of the neighbours has called the police. But, no. Bloody Brits and their minding their own business. It continues until dawn is breaking on the horizon, and then finally, the paintballs cease.

They edge out of the door hiding behind makeshift shields, ready in case the attack is redoubled. When they aren't immediately bombarded with paintballs, Alex pokes his head around the cardboard. The first thing he sees is a familiar figure leaning against a car, a smirk plastered onto his face. Alex almost drops his shield.

"Wolf!"

" _I'll kill you, you bastards!_ "

There's a red blur and then Wolf is jumping back, looking startled at the sight of a small, furious American woman running at him with a frying pan and a maniacal glint in her eye. Luckily for Wolf, Ian manages to grab her before she murders him.

"Let me at them!" she yells as Ian has to drag her back into the house. "They're dead!"

When the door clicks shut, Alex turns on them with a scowl of his own. Discarding the shield, he sees Snake and Eagle, paintball guns slung over their shoulders.

"So," he says, "Yassen hired you to ruin my house?"

Alex glances behind him, and grimaces. The house is pretty much totalled. There isn't a single speck of plain brick left. It's certainly a colourful redecoration.

Wolf shrugs. "He originally wanted to hire us to kidnap and waterboard you."

"We talked him down to this instead," Eagle grins. "You have green in your hair, by the way."

Alex's glare only makes his grin grow wider.

"Why on God's green earth would the SAS let someone like Yassen Gregorovich borrow one of their teams?"

"They were quite, uh, interested, when they heard about your predicament." Snake's head tilts in curiosity. "How did you end up in a prank war with Yassen Gregorovich anyway, Cub?"

Alex sighs. "It's a bit of a long story. The Cliffnotes version is that he tried to kill my uncle. And I can't get, you know, _proper_ revenge cause MI6 have decided to 'forgive' him or whatever." He gives them a dirty look. "Shouldn't you supposed to be on my side? You were _my_ teammates."

Wolf laughs cruelly. "What about the week you trained with us gave you the impression that we would _ever_ be on your side, Cub?"

"So what are you planning next?" asks Eagle.

Alex almost speaks, but then stops. K Unit is looking at him expectedly, and something in Eagle's wide eyes is just _too_ innocent.

"Do you really think I'm that gullible? I know you're spying for Yassen, idiots."

"What? We would never—"

"Here's an idea: how about you fuck off before I call the cops on you?"

Eagle practically pouts.

"Aren't you even going to invite us in for breakfast, Cub? We've been up all night! Hey, come on, trashing your house was thirsty work!"

Alex ignores him and retreats back into the house. His aloofness is ruined, however, when he slips on wet paint on the doorstep. K Unit burst into laughter behind him. Ian and Jack are waiting for him when he steps inside, both looking varying degrees of pissed off.

"If you're going to say that this has gone too far, don't bother. I know."

"Let me at them, Alex," Jack wheedles, but Alex shakes his head.

"No, Jack. They're not worth committing a felony for."

"It has gone quite far," says Ian. "You better have a good way of getting even for this."

Alex scratches his head. "Well, I kind of brought out the big guns when I trashed his room at the bank…"

Ian gives him such a sceptical look that Alex gets defensive.

"What?"

"Is that really the best you can do? I thought you were a better teenager than that." Before Alex could get a word out, he crosses the room and picks up the phone. "That Russian asshole is going to regret ruining my house," he says, his voice dangerously dark.

"Who?" Alex asks, a shiver of trepidation running through him at the look on Ian's face. He's immensely glad that Ian is on his side in this feud.

"You know who."

Oh. Alex shudders, and nods. Then he dials Tom's number.

.

.

Tom arrives with a truly terrifying array of items, that, had they been found in his house, Alex is sure would get him instantly arrested. He sweeps everything off of the kitchen table to brainstorm. Even Ian is impressed by how thoroughly he goes about it, interrogating them for every fact they know about Yassen, and turning up some brutal ideas. Alex reluctantly talks him down from the worst ones ("we're not covering his room in cat litter, Tom"; " _we're not putting rat poison in his food, Tom!_ ") but even he gives in in the end.

When they put the first plan into action, Alex almost feels a bit guilty that Tom can't be there. Sneaking him into the Royal and General would just be too difficult. Tom doesn't seem too annoyed, content to watch it all livestreamed from Ian's phone that he tactfully positions when they settle down at one of the tables in the cafeteria.

Yassen always enters a room as if he's expecting a hoard of assassins to be on the other side. His eyes shift onto Ian and Alex, and narrow in suspicion. Alex hopes that the two hours he spent scrubbing the green paint out of his hair were successful.

Yassen heads for the vending machine, as he always does, and pulls out a soda with a foreign-sounding name. Alex doesn't know exactly what _is_ supposed to be in it. But what's in it today is the spiciest chilli sauce that money can buy on the black market. It came with a black skull on the bottle. From where he's sitting nearby, Alex angles his phone upward, making sure Tom has a good view, and pretends to be chatting to Ian as Yassen cracks open the lid and leans in to take a sip.

The effect is instantaneous. Yassen's skin goes from white to cherry-red in a fraction of a second. He drops the bottle, choking and screaming curses at the top of his lungs. The whole cafeteria goes silent in shock. The man at the nearest table scrambles out of the way as Yassen seizes his water, pouring it down his throat like he's dying of thirst.

Alex doesn't realise he's laughing quite so hard until Yassen turns to him with blood-red eyes like something out of a horror movie. His eyes are demented. Hissing something in broken Russian, he launches himself at Alex.

Ian and Alex have the sense to run from the room, sprinting through the corridors, until finally they collapse in fits of laughter.

.

.

Alex is still smiling when he goes home that night. Not on alert as he usually is, he doesn't think twice about leaving his glass of water out while he goes to the bathroom before going to bed, or leaving his window open again. If he notices a slight aftertaste to the drink, he doesn't give it much thought. His limbs are strangely heavier than usual…

.

.

At 9:03, Alex wakes to the odd feeling that his head is… cold?

At 9:04, he opens his eyes to see his hair on the pillow beside him.

At 9:45, he storms through the Royal and General bank and breaks Yassen Gregorovich's nose.

At 9:55, he's hauled to Blunt's room by the heavy-handed security man who pulled him off that _asshole_ of an assassin before Alex could do any more damage. Alex, for his part, is sporting a black eye and a split lip. Okay, so maybe he shouldn't have started a fist fight with a world class assassin; maybe that wasn't a very clever idea. But his _hair_? Yassen plays dirty. Sedating Alex and shaving his head in the night is too far.

Blunt glances up when Alex enters, takes in his appearance, and puts down his pen with a long-suffering sigh.

"This," he says, "Is what happens when you don't listen to what I tell you."

Alex tries to hold his head high, but it's a little hard when he knows he looks absolutely ridiculous. In the corner, Mrs Jones is pressing her lips together to hide her smile, and Alex feels a flush of humiliation.

"Why are you continuing with this silly little feud, Alex? What are you possibly getting out of this?"

Alex crosses his arms indignantly. "Yassen tried to kill my uncle. He sent me to Scorpia. He's a murderer, and you're acting like he's completely innocent and trustworthy. Where's the justice in that?"

"We expect a level of maturity from our agents—"

"With all due respect, Mr Blunt, I don't think you have any right to say that when you hired a fourteen-year-old."

Blunt's eyes flash dangerously. "If you don't end this – this— this-"

"I believe the young people call it a 'prank war'," Mrs Jones supplies.

"—This _war_ , then it's going to kill one of you. Yassen has already threatened to murder you more times than I care to count. How far do you think you can push him before he decides that imprisonment is worth ridding himself of you?"

Alex swallows nervously.

"Luckily for you, you're enough of an asset that we can't afford to lose you. So I'm going to give you an ultimatum: end this petty little feud now, or you'll be spending a month in solitary."

Alex scowls. "Isn't that illegal?"

Blunt shrugs. "We've already broken enough rules where you're concerned."

"… Fine. I'll end it."

It's probably for the best, he thinks. At least he gets a vindictive surge of satisfaction from seeing Yassen sitting outside Blunt's office like a schoolboy who's been sent to the principal, a tissue pressed to his still-bleeding nose.

He's still in a bad mood for the rest of the day. It doesn't help that Tom rolls around on the floor with laughter when he sees Alex's butchered haircut.

"So how are you getting back at him for it?" he says eventually.

Alex sulks. "I'm not. I can't. Blunt says I have to stop." He picks at his sleeve. "It's probably for the best," he says without conviction. "Yassen _will_ probably kill me one of these days, if I don't stop. He could have genuinely killed me last night, actually." He shudders at the realisation.

Tom makes a face. "Yeah," he says unenthusiastically. "It's probably for the best."

There's a silence between them that lasts around three seconds.

"So anyway, how are you getting back at him for it?"

.

.

The next three weeks mark an uneasy truce between Alex and Yassen. Blunt, it seems, is taking no chances. A heavyset security guard follows Alex at all times around the Royal and General for the first week, giving him a disapproving look if he so much as thinks about going anywhere he's not supposed to. Yassen seems to be getting the same treatment. Alex hears him loudly complaining about "not needing to be babysitted like the Rider brat".

After a few weeks, though, it seems to die down. The tension between him and Yassen seems to fizzle away, helped by the fact that Alex isn't allowed within twenty feet of his mortal enemy. The other bank employees seem to lose interest, no longer hushing their conversations and craning their necks Alex when he enters the room, eagerly waiting for the next drama.

Alex is surprised when he hears that Yassen will actually be attending the Royal and General annual Christmas Party. Yassen is not a social creature. But apparently, he's going to be delivering some kind of presentation. Alex wonders if Blunt is forcing him to do it.

When he mentions it to Tom, the other boy jumps on it.

"You have to take advantage of it!" he insists. "It's perfect. You have to go all _Carrie_ on him. Come on, Alex, you can't waste an opportunity like this!"

Alex bites his lip. The thought of a month in solitary really isn't appealing… but his hair is growing back ever so slowly. If he leaves it like this, Yassen has had the last word.

Tom is right. He _needs_ to take advantage of it.

Christmas Eve rolls around surprisingly quickly. Alex is sent on a mission to DC. It's virtually easy, by his standards. He finds himself pondering how he's going to go about pranking Yassen while he's while sprinting through the halls of the Capitol building, dodging bullets. He turns Tom's suggestions over in his mind while he's defusing the bomb. He thinks about asking the terrorists for suggestions when he has them tied up and is waiting for Delta Force to arrive to pick them up. They seem like they'd have some interesting things to say.

In the end, he decides to go with a classic. Like Tom suggested.

Ian comes along to the Christmas party as well, and insists that he and Alex wear bow-ties and suffer the slew of James Bond jokes that are thrown their way. Yassen doesn't stick out like a sore thumb, as Alex expects. In fact, he almost seems to disappear as he mingles with the guests, reminding Alex creepily that he is, after all, a world class assassin who's used to disappearing when he needs to. Alex catches his eye several times during the event, and he wonders exactly what Yassen is up to. Is he following Blunt's orders and obeying the forced ceasefire? He wonders what this presentation he's supposedly giving is about.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," says Yassen when he takes to the stage.

Alex is instantly suspicious. There's a sadistic glint in his eye. He wouldn't be surprised if someone told him that Yassen tortures kittens as a hobby.

"For the past few months, I've had the pleasure of working alongside many of you, and I'm exceedingly grateful for how you've accepted me."

Alex can see the audience shifting. He understands the unease. This is the moment in the Bond movie where Yassen reveals that all their drinks are poisoned, or something. Yassen flashes another smile.

"As a token of my gratitude, I've decided to prove the entertainment for tonight's party. I'm sure you're all acquainted with little Rider, the youngest among us. Well, I thought I'd share some rather amusing photos I found of him…"

Alex balks in horror. On the screen behind Yassen, blown up to a horrific size, is a picture of him - except it's a picture that shouldn't exist, because he told Jack to _burn_ that photo. It's twelve-year-old Alex in the prime of his emo phase, with bad blue streaks in his hair and smudged under-eye liner. He hears a smattering of laughter run through the crowds. Yassen is smirking as he flicks onto the next picture. This one is seven-year-old Alex with his underwear on his head.

Alex slides down in his seat, his face crimson with embarrassment. He can even hear Ian chuckling beside him. Glancing over, he catches Blunt's eye, and sees a slight frown marring his face; Yassen was obviously given the same "no more pranks" ultimatum as Alex, and he's clearly deciding to disobey it. Alex feels a flash of gratitude that Blunt doesn't have the slightest sense of humour - at least one person in the room isn't laughing at him.

He _hates_ Yassen. He's going to have no reputation left at all, after this.

Yassen sounds positively gleeful as he provides cordial commentary for each and every picture. Alex hides his face by looking down at Ian's phone, which is blowing up, Tom's name flashing across the screen.

 ** _alex what's going on?_**

 ** _did you do it?_**

 ** _answer me alex!_**

He shoots off a quick reply, quashing his nausea.

 ** _yassen is a dick. i'm definitely doing it._**

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the switch that Smithers might or might not have surprised him with. The usually-cheery man had turned serious when Alex had turned up in his workshop after his unintentional haircut.

"You know I don't take sides," he had said. "But that was a dirty, dirty move. If you were, hypothetically, to propose a plan that you might have up your sleeve, I might be able to hypothetically suggest a few ways of going about it."

Alex doesn't hesitate before pushing the big red button in the centre of the switch.

Yassen, being the prime assassin that he is, really should have noticed the addition to the rafters above the stage. At the press of the button, the bucket positioned directly above his head tilts and up-ends its contents onto his head. Yassen's smug voice is abruptly cut off as he's drenched in freezing cold slime. The room collectively gasps. Alex saw a few of the agents reach instinctively into their pockets at the sudden turn of events. But then, after a moment of shocked silence, the party erupts with laughter once again. Not at Alex this time, but at Yassen, covered in disgusting sludge.

Alex smiles darkly. Revenge feels _good_. He reaches down to text Tom, but the phone is knocked from his hand when Ian abruptly grabs him.

"Alex!"

Alex looks up to a blur of movement. He catches sight of Yassen reaching into his jacket, and then there's a pistol pointed straight at Alex's head. Alex's eyes shoot open. He has absolutely no doubts that Yassen will pull the trigger.

Luckily, he doesn't get the chance. They're both tackled to the ground. Alex puts up a fight as his arms are yanked behind his back and handcuffs click around his wrists, pointing out very rationally that _he_ wasn't the one waving a gun around, but his attacker ignores him. A pair of polished shoes appear before him, and Alex strains. Blunt is shaking his head disappointedly.

"A month of prison it is," he says.

Alex groans.

"Was it really worth it, Alex?"

Alex thinks back to the look on Yassen's face when the slush came pouring down over his head.

"Yeah," he has to admit. "It was."

Blunt sighs, and then motions to the guards. Alex doesn't even resist when he's led down to the cells in the basement of the building. But his lingering grin falters when he's pushed into the cell - more specifically, when he sees who's sitting on one of the beds, a scowl on his face. Most of the goo has been wiped off, but he's still a little greener than he should be.

"Wait a minute, you said solitary!"

Panic begins to bubble up inside of him. He can't spend a month in a cell with Yassen Gregorovich. No. Not even Blunt is that cruel.

For the first time in this whole feud, Alex sees Blunt's lips twitch with amusement. Of course he would find _this_ funny, the sadistic bastard.

"A month alone together should be enough time to sort out your differences. Behave yourself Alex."

And then he leaves, deaf to Alex's pleas. He might as well have thrown Alex in a cage with a starving lion.

Alex avoids Yassen's eye, throwing himself down on the opposite bed. The silence stretches out between them, until finally Alex is the one to break it.

"You shouldn't have slashed my tires," he says bitterly. "I wasn't going to take it any further, but you ruined my bike, dude. That's not cool."

Yassen raises an eyebrow.

"You should not have stolen my guns."

"Come on. It was pretty funny. You've got to admit."

Yassen does not look amused. Alex should really keep his mouth shut, before he makes things worse for himself, but holding his tongue has never been one of his talents.

"Anyway, you were the one who started all of this. You have no right to blame me."

Yassen's head tilts in confusion.

"You tried to kill my uncle," Alex reminds him. "Or have you forgotten about that?"

"Is that what all this has been about?"

"Well, yeah. And you sent me to Scorpia - why did you even do that? They're a bunch of terrorists who killed my family!"

Yassen stares at him for a moment.

"I was dying," he says slowly. "Did you not consider that the lack of oxygen to my brain caused by my _bullet wound_ might have impacted the advice that I gave you?"

Alex pauses. No, he... actually hadn't considered that.

"You still tried to kill Ian," he argues.

"Because it was my job. And I let you live, when I was ordered to kill you as well."

Alex can't exactly argue with that.

"I still don't like you," he says eventually.

"I'm not particularly fond of you," Yassen returns, but Alex thinks that something has definitely shifted between them. The atmosphere in the cell is definitely a little less hostile.

"I shouldn't have taken your guns," Alex admits eventually. "It was petty."

Yassen looks at him for a moment, then he shrugs.

"Whatever. I can forget it."

"Wait, really?"

"You are a teenager," Yassen says, as if that's explanation enough.

"Does this mean you'll fix my phone?" asks Alex. "And my Xbox?"

Yassen inclines his head. "Once they let us out of this cell, yes. I will."

Right. Because they're going to be here for a month. Alex lies back on his bunk.

"You're not bad, Yassen," he says eventually. "I mean, you're still an asshole. But you could be worse."

"You're an insufferable brat. You're far too immature to be a spy."

"Hey, I was being nice to you!"

"But," Yassen continues, "You could also be worse."

It's probably the closest to a compliment they'll ever get.

It's definitely a weird situation, working with the former assassin that was once apprentice to his father, and that tried to once kill his uncle. But Alex supposes there isn't really a normal way of being a sixteen-year-old spy. And – as they'll discover a month later, when they succeed on a mission together for the first time – despite everything, it actually kind of works.


End file.
